


Rage, Rage Against The Dying Of The Light

by Dead_Is_The_New_Sexy



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Sheriarty - Freeform, Victorian Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, jimlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-13
Updated: 2019-10-13
Packaged: 2020-12-14 04:43:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21009920
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dead_Is_The_New_Sexy/pseuds/Dead_Is_The_New_Sexy
Summary: In the age of the Ripper, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson know who he is, but what they don't realize is what's happened to him.Nor does John Watson realize what lives in the heart of his closest friend and companion, or the consequences of that secret. His work to fight Consumption will be his crowning achievement of his lifetime ... but at what cost?





	Rage, Rage Against The Dying Of The Light

"You know where he is? Why does it fall to us, to arrest him?"  
  
John Watson was not certain how he felt about this. The Ripper was a deadly man, deranged, past all recall. They were to go after him alone? But Holmes was certain this was the only way to proceed. There was something off, something wrong. No police. This did not feel like an arrest as much as a rescue or perhaps worse. Could Sherlock possibly ... no. No. They were so close. Closer than the law allowed. Surely ... no ... and then they were out the door. Sherlock wore almost a smile, something closer perhaps to a grimace. But why, what was this, really?

"Sherlock."  
  
"Trust me, this is for the best. I have a plan in mind to save a soul."  
  
"What can you be speaking of ..."  
  
"Trust me."  
  
"I want to."

Sherlock's plans were his own. Ill thought out and poorly conceived. There was too much John did not know, that he could never be allowed to know. James had not been in contact with Sherlock for six months. Oh, Sherlock knew. It wasn't as if the muddled madman hadn't divulged all, in the scorched midnight moons of their times together. It had all begun as a way in. A way into the brilliant and impossibly twisted mind, into the sickness that reeked and raved. It had begun that way, yes. But then more, as more often does, had happened. More, and less, and different. Holmes knew that cursing his Destiny was meaningless. Cheating on John was its own punishment. He'd never know. Even Moriarty's words would never be believed. Sherlock would not see him go to the gallows any more than he'd see him destroy what he and Watson had. Sherlock had a plan in mind, and he had already decided on its success. Unfortunately, it was not the thing he expected, as they took the carriage to the address where the Ripper was to be found.

Consumption lent itself to entire hospitals, seething Institutes, chapels of sadness and death. This was their destination, and Sherlock Holmes led the way, his face cold and stricken.  
  
No.  
  
Gods damn it, no!   
  
It couldn't end this way!

And there he was, defeated already.

A small dark man, bathed in sweat and face tight with suffering. Sherlock walked all the way in, ignoring the entreaties of the nurses - as if they weren't already wearing face masks, out, bothersome woman!, he snarled. Straight to Moriarty, now dying in a cold sheeted white bed, alone, past all hope. "We're taking this one." The nurse made an old maid's gasp of horror, and it was echoed by Watson. No - certainly not! If this was the Ripper, leave him to God's justice, and even as he spoke those very words, Sherlock had scooped up the unresisting bundle, slipped a mask over his lips, and they returned to the carriage with their unholy and wretched prize. Fresh blood with its bright crimson stained the mask, and Sherlock did not look, did not wish to see. John Watson did not dare speak, for was this not merely the unrelenting horror of a some bygone nightmare?

Up, up, into the plodding normality of the steps.

"Fetch the serum."  
  
Watson startled, as Moriarty was laid down onto the cot in the side room.

"What."  
  
"Fetch the serum."

John stared at him stupidly, and then nodded, returning with a small vial of colourless liquid. "It will not work, it's not even close to complete, Sherlock we have discussed this, you know, and even if --"

Sherlock smiled, a very alarming smile, for it was utterly disjointed this time. "Feed it to him." Watson shook his head. "No. I cannot, it - not even to this man, whom you believe to be the Ripper and worse than we ever knew, even to him I cannot give something like this!"

"He is dying. It works, or it does not work, and he dies anyway. Give it to him." Sherlock's smile was gone now, disjointed or no. And Watson wished it was back. Wished Holmes was back. But he had changed. _God help us,_ he thought. 

"Prop him up."

James Moriarty stared at them, the blood soaked mask wet against his weary face. His eyes were dark and dull, glazed already with death approaching soon enough. But his Irish fighting spirit was not gone. He nodded, yes, yes he'd take it. And so John Watson poured the entire contents of the vial down his parched throat, followed by a draught of cool water. Moriarty fainted, and Sherlock made a sound that John had never heard before, a soft, inhuman sound of grief. Finally, the harried doctor, who seemed to have aged tremendously in such short time, pulled him out of the room, and shook his head. "Let him die in peace. There's no more to be done, he is unconscious. The greater cruelty would be to awaken him. Sherlock, come - come with me now, please."

To his great relief, the taller man went, after a furtive and sad look towards the small silent figure on the cot.

Watson wondered what Sherlock had bought, with his great mind and yearning heart. What Hell had he invited into their lives. Had he and Moriarty perhaps even - was that a thought he could bear? Christ. No, it was not.

He was not a man to wish suffering, but when it came to Moriarty, he was willing to wish death. And really, it was better this way. The man was clearly going through hell, consumption was a foul and brutal murderer. The serum would never save him. Even if it had the components, finally, to offer some real hope to the thousands dying of this scourge, it was too late for him. He was too far gone. Sherlock had located his enigmatic mad genius too late to save him. The fact that this was in itself a mercy to everyone involved was not something he'd ever speak aloud.  
  
And so when morning came ...and the door ...

the door ... creaked _open_ ...

Sherlock's cry of joy sickened John's heart, not out of any monstrous chill in his own, but the simple fact that James Moriarty lived and ...apparently ... could not be stopped. 

Even.

  
  
By.

God.  
  
  
A wet silk smile brushed across lips no longer reddened by blood, and the hot flush of death's fever was cooled, the man was ...well .. the serum ... was ...success, at such cost, success!

The Devil spoke.

"Do not just stand there gaping, dearest John. Pray do get the tea on, after all ... we're all together and I just _know_ ... you cannot wait to celebrate!!"


End file.
